


even shadows can get burnt

by mynameis_not_cathofaragon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Grantaire Has Self-Esteem Issues (Les Misérables), Grantaire-centric, Hurt, I'm Bad At Titles, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Permets-tu? | Do You Permit It?, Possibly Unrequited Love, Probably Unhealthy Relationships, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Sad Grantaire, because I say so, i guess, i mean it's canon compliant, liberal use of the word perhaps, not period typical homophobia, not that angsty all things considered i think, open to interpretation i guess - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:00:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27480850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameis_not_cathofaragon/pseuds/mynameis_not_cathofaragon
Summary: Grantaire was a coward, but when it came down to it, nothing could stop him from dying next to the only person he ever truly loved and believed in.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	even shadows can get burnt

**Author's Note:**

> after almost a year of having The Brick in my bookshelf i finally read and gOD i'm obsessed, i had to write something, so here's a bit of angst!

Grantaire was not a brave man. He knew that, accepted it, never tried to pretend otherwise.

He was a cynic, who believed in nothing and stood for nothing. A drunkard with no morals or objectives in life, who care little for anything that didn’t come in a bottle.

Nobody understood why or how he came to join Les Amis, and if asked, he’d say with a smirk that he didn’t know either, but he was too lazy to leave. That was a lie.

He was indeed a cowardly cynic, no use in denying the truth, but two things he believed in, even if he would never admit to it. Friendship was one of them, as silly as it sounded; he actually enjoyed the company of his friends, even if he couldn’t be as passionate as them. Ironically enough, the other one was passion itself; or rather, its embodiment.

Enjolras was the sun, Apollo on Earth. In the first meeting Grantaire attended he could see it, the fire blazing behind his eyes, his cheeks rosy with indignation, even wrath perhaps, his words sharp as a blade, his whole being emanating impossible brightness. Grantaire was lost the moment Enjolras pronounced his first word in his presence.

The words themselves held no power over Grantaire, no talk of revolution mattered to him, but it was the man itself who enchanted him.

At first, he told himself it was simply because they were so different one from another, two polar opposites who searched each other for that very reason. He enjoyed antagonizing their leader, watching his eyes light up. It was fun, he told himself.

Despite what others might have thought, he wasn’t a good liar, and a few months after his addition to their revolution he had to face the truth: he was enamoured with Enjolras. He made his peace with this fairly quickly, but what he couldn’t bring himself to accept was Enjolras’ hatred towards him.

He despised him, it was public knowledge; after all, Grantaire was the exact reverse of everything he stood for. He knew he wouldn’t change it, no matter what he did, so instead he did all he could to aggravate it, gaining if not his regard, his attention.

A wiser man would have fled, preserved his sanity and dignity, and moved on. Grantaire was no such man, he was a self-destructive, pathetic bastard, who relished in pain if not for other reason than to feel something. He was darkness, the shadows lurking in the corners of ill-reputed bars; Enjolras was light, the sun of the morning. He had to be careful, for even shadows could be burnt.

But he didn’t care, instead seeking for the burn, longing to feel its warmth for at least a fleeting instant.

When the Amis’ talk for revolution began to take a turn towards a real possibility and not just an illusion, an ache settled in his chest, as he understood how it would end. Even the most faithful of worshippers can question their god at times.

“It is madness!” He would say, his gaze fixed on Enjolras’. “You will all get yourselves killed, for a cause with no real future.”

Enjolras didn’t care, he would respond with the same ferocity, a savage hope glinting in his eyes. Though the question was clearly written on his expression, he never asked Grantaire why he didn’t simply leave.

Perhaps he already knew the answer, perhaps everybody did. While at first glance it seemed as if both of them hated each other, some observation would reveal Grantaire’s reverence; it was clear in the way he would always listen intently to Enjolras’ speeches, if only to contradict them later, in his soft expression when he thought no one was looking, in the upwards turning of his mouth when Enjolras said something particularly passionate or clever. Grantaire knew that no matter what, he would follow him, even if it led him to his death; he may not have believed in anything, but he believed in someone.

When the plans for the barricades began to form, the ache in his chest grew to the point where his only relief was in a bottle. He would catch Enjolras’ disappointed and angered looks thrown his way, and smirk in response, holding his bottle high, praying to a god he didn’t believe in that his eyes didn’t betray him.

The day of their deaths came, and he wasn’t surprised at his dismissal. He didn’t wish to fight anyway, and the officers would undoubtedly find him in the end, so he went.

Not before five cups, he allowed himself to cry. Quiet tears slowly turned into sobs, which everyone else was too preoccupied with the battle to hear. He thought bitterly of the past, of every fight they had, every conversation they didn’t.

In another life, perhaps, things would have been different. In a time with no revolutions to be fought, no causes to be preached, no tyrannical governments to be overthrown, they might have been friends. Perhaps, if they would have survived this.

But perhaps wasn’t real, and speculation was useless. Their present, their reality, had no room for perhaps. What was the point of pondering about what if’s?

With these thoughts, he fell into unconsciousness, the bitter taste of heartbreak and the ache of his chest stronger than ever before.

He woke up to silence.

He knew something was wrong before he even managed to properly open his eyes. There was a stillness on the air, the clamour of battle was gone. Looking up, his heart almost stopped.

“…who killed the artillery sergeant?”

“Yes.”

He had known this was the only way it could end, no happy endings for them, for their little group of schoolboys with ideals too big for them.

Grantaire was a cynic, a drunk, a coward. Yet he didn’t hesitate.

“Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."

How could he? Was there ever any other ending for him? Seeing Enjolras, their fearless leader standing there, defying even in his last moments, grand and terrible and beautiful and bright, perhaps a better man would have kept quiet, pretended death, escaped and kept the cause alive. But there was no room for perhaps, and Grantaire was no such man.

From the moment he understood Enjolras would die for his beliefs, Grantaire knew he would die for Enjolras, and apparently Enjolras figured it out as well, even if only at the end.

He strode towards him, towards his light, his sun, his Apollo. He was indeed Icarus, but the burn was too delightful not to succumb to it.

“Long live the Republic!” He repeated, standing next to him. _Long live Apollo._ “Finish both of us at one blow.”

He turned to him, the god now turned mortal, whose fear and decision was clear as day in his eyes. A brave man would have said nothing more, but Grantaire was no such man.

“Do you permit it?”

He had to ask, he needed to know if perhaps, in other circumstances, in another life, he could have loved him, too. Rejection wouldn’t hurt so badly now.

But Enjolras, passionate, strong, smart, terrible, beautiful, rough, godly, mortal, Enjolras took his hand in his, smiling gently and truly, giving peace to his tortured heart for the first time.

Grantaire was a coward, self-destructive, pathetic, a cynic, a drunkard, he believed in nothing and stood for nothing, he had no morals and no optimism, his truest companion was a bottle, he didn’t even think highly of himself. But none of that matter, for at the end of the day, one thing he believed in, one god, one person.

He’d always told people he wouldn’t die for an ideal, for a cause, his will wasn’t strong enough. In a way, it was true.

Enjolras was much more than an ideal, he was indescribable, ineffable, so perfect and so flawed. He was the Sun, bright and burning. Many had died for his cause, but only one died for him.

Grantaire was a coward, but when it came down to it, nothing could stop him from dying next to the only person he ever truly loved and believed in.

**Author's Note:**

> so how did i do for my first work for les mis? too bad? acceptable?  
> i have some ideas for some more fics, but if i actually write them or not is another matter lol. anyway, if you made it all the way here, thanks for reading!


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